Surrender
by Catarinamer
Summary: Two-shot. April 9, 1865. America watches as General Lee signs the papers that end the war that nearly tore her apart. Her son watches as his general signs the papers that give him up. Fem!America, Confederacy.
1. Chapter 1

America entered the colonial house – which at the moment was being used as a meeting place between the Union and Confederate generals – with an air of weariness. General Ulysses Grant's staff followed behind her, because while she had only just arrived, they had been waiting to be summoned while the generals spoke. She had ridden up to the Union officers on horseback, so her hair wasn't perfect, but she didn't care at the moment. To be honest, she knew that her fatigue was obvious; it was present in the dark circles under her eyes, her mussed up hair, the carelessness in how she had donned her uniform. In how she walked, erect but with the shoulders stooped.

Of course, she was still the United – _united?_ – States of America, and as a country commanded an aura of power and confidence despite her pitiful state. Even the Confederacy held the aura that made citizens respect him.

He'd sat up a little straighter as she entered, and America gave him a sad, loving smile. There was her son, wearing more bandages than she would have liked to have to see on him, but blue eyes shining nonetheless. He cast those pretty eyes downward, though in nervousness or shame she wasn't sure.

No said a word as she took her seat by her general, facing the golden-haired teenager who was clearly her child. Grant's staff entered as if it were a sick room with a patient near death. The simile frightened America. They spread about in the room, walking softly and saying nothing.

General Grant as seated at a large marble table in the middle of the room. General Lee had arrived before anyone, and was sitting by a small table near the window. The Confederacy had pulled up a chair from the main table to sit with his own general. While the latter, older man was sitting erect and looking quite well-put together, contrasting with General Grant's more simple clothing.

General Grant broke the silence. "I met you once before, General Lee, while we were serving in Mexico, when you came over from General Scott's headquarters to visit Garland's brigade, to which I then belonged," he told the older man. "I have always remembered your appearance, and I think I should have recognized you anywhere."

Lee nodded. "Yes, I know I met you on that occasion, and I have often thought of it and tried to recollect how you looked, but I have never been able to recall a single feature." This wasn't meant as a snub, America decided. Simply, Lee had been of higher rank, and a more decorated officer – Lee – makes a longer-lasting impression than a lower one – Grant.

America managed to smile. "I myself have some difficulty remembering faces, though I don't think I'll forget either of yours."

"I know _I'll_ never forget Mexico's face when we arrived on his doorstep," Confederacy spoke up, an amused and faraway look decorating his features. "Or Texas's, for that matter. I don't think I've ever seen such a look of…" He trailed off, not knowing the word.

"Schaudenfraude?" America prompted. The three men looked at her in confusion. "It's German," she explained. "It means…basically, to take pleasure in someone else's pain."

"It's _German_? That explains it," her son noted wryly. The two smiled, sharing a private joke. It was truly amazing, really, how they were behaving. America wasn't demanding Confederacy to do anything, and the latter wasn't snapping back at her or giving the silent treatment. The men seemed slightly surprised. It was justified. Both America and Confederacy were surprised, too.

"Prussia told me the word during the Revolution."

"Prussia? The utterly _insane_ German?" A chuckle and nod from America. "Prussia is the _epitome_ of schauden— schauden….erm."

Another smile. "_Schaundenfraude_."

"I think I prefer English."

"I started speaking French in the Revolution just to annoy Britain." It had worked, by the way. The British Nation had been more than a little annoyed. Confederacy tilted his head thoughtfully. "And, no," she continued, still grinning in a way that couldn't be described as anything other than _American_, "I won't respond to you if you start chatting to me in Spanish."

It was this surprisingly civil conversation, which Lee and Grant also contributed to, that lessened some of the tension in the room. However, they were present because of business, and eventually it had to get done. Lee asked for the terms of surrender, and Grant began to put it on paper. America – Confederacy, too, swallowing nervously – watched him as he wrote swiftly on sheaves of paper. At one point, he stopped and glanced at the jewel-encrusted sword at Lee's side. America shook her head, and Grant continued his writing.

After giving it to America to quickly skim through the documents and approve it, Grant handed the other general the terms of surrender. Both Lee and Confederacy read through it carefully. "The horses used by the men in the cavalry and artillery belong to them. I would like to request that they can keep them," Lee asked.

America began to say that yes, they could, but let Grant say it for her. It was technically his decision, and he happened to agree with her anyway. Confederacy plucked a pen up from the table, to give to his general, but paused. America blinked sadly at him. It must be difficult, to surrender. That he failed his citizens, his soldiers. That his fleeing had resulted in thousands of deaths of his people, and he would go and tell them that it was for nothing. America was exceedingly lucky, she knew, to have won the Revolution. She was imaging what would have happened if she'd lost when Lee gently tugged the pen from his distressed Nation and began to write his letter of formal surrender.

In the middle of Lee's writing, Confederacy stood up from his chair. His general paused, but the Nation made a gesture for him to keep writing, so he did so. Confederacy muttered that he would be back shortly, and left the room. America made to follow him, but decided against it. She retained the image of Britain surrendering to her – his expression so full of pain and betrayal, and she didn't want to see it on her son at all. It made her feel selfish, but she couldn't see it. Not when she'd caused it. America sat back down, hesitantly.

Confederacy, however, came back in shortly after Lee finished the letter. The former turned to his mother, handing her Lee's surrender. "United States of America, I, the Confederate State of America, formerly surrender to you." He paused, and his tone implied that he was going to continue, but he couldn't find the heart to. Confederacy and his general bowed to all in the room, Lee first shaking Grant's hand, then taking America's and kissing it in a chivalrous way.

America turned to Confederacy. He stared at her with defeated eyes. "Mother…" but his voice cracked in the middle of the word, and he lost his ability of speech. It took all of America's willpower to not pull him into a hug, to ruffle his wheat-colored hair, to say she was sorry, that she loved him and wouldn't ever hurt him again. Was this how Britain had felt? The thought made her even more miserable.

He bowed formally to her, and the action hurt both of them. America forlornly added the fourth spectacle of a defeated Nation to her mental library. She watched as her son and General Lee left the room.

Lee and Confederacy stood, side by side, in silence while their horses were readied. Lee smote his hands absently, staring in the direction of his troops. He didn't seem to notice anything; not how the Union soldiers stood respectfully, not how America studied him wistfully and sadly, how Grant lifted his hat in salute, or how the sympathy of every man there belonged to him.

Finally, their horses were ready. Lee mounted immediately. Confederacy did not. He hesitated. Turned around to face his mother. Cleared his throat. "Mother, I…I still…"

It reminded America of another unpleasant memory, but in it she had been in her son's position. Her love for him won over the need for formality and propriety – unlike how it had been for her and Britain, who had stood away indifferently– and she quickly whisked down the steps, sweeping Confederacy into a strong, secure embrace. Of course, it was strange, the winner comforting and hugging the loser, but no one, at the time, found it out of place or incorrect.

Confederacy relaxed, and let himself be held for a few moments. It was warm and safe in his mother's embrace, and somehow he felt that he would not be able to feel it again for a long time. For those few seconds, he felt like a normal little boy, and not a surrendering Nation. "I love you, too," she whispered. He buried his face in her neck and tightened his grip around her small frame, fighting not to cry.

But soon the moment past, he recovered, and she held him at arms' length. He was taller than she, America noticed. Strange thing to notice now. There was a silent understanding between them, and she dropped her hands heavily to her sides. Everyone was staring, of course, though the collective sadness far outweighed any other reaction. Lee wasn't watching them, either ashamed or simply being polite. Grant reacted similarly, staring down at his boots. Finally, though, Confederacy cleared his throat and mounted his horse.

The two rebels turned their horses around and left. Confederacy glanced back, once, at his mother with her persistent loving gaze. He didn't turn around again.

* * *

><p>So if anyone noticed that I uploaded it, then deleted it a few minutes later, its because I still have no IDEA how to use this website. ._. Hence, my habit of NEVER UPLOADING ANYTHING. FF cut off half of the story, though, and it wouldn't edit AND ERUGH. But it's okay now! Except that it's terrible. In any case, primary sources are awesome. So if the dialouge between Grant and Lee is weird, it's because I didn't make it up. XD I made Confederacy and America get along at the beginning because they had a very civil surrender meeting...and that's much more than Britain can say. I was GOING to write about the Confederacy being hanged for treason, and America's reaction, but somehow you get this instead. If enough people bother me out of my laziness I will write that extreme piece of sadness for you.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

A crowd had gathered, and that fact alone sickened America as she tried her best to keep herself from vomiting in the grass. The gallows stood high and imposing as nine people silently counted their last precious seconds on Earth.

Guards were everywhere. Of course they were – the execution would be taking place in a military fort. They knew that America was there. They would glance over at the unusually somber woman in mourning dress from time to time, and some reassured and told her in an erroneous action of comfort that the death of her president would be avenged today.

That wasn't why she was there.

She didn't want to watch the assassins of her beloved president hanged.

Because there was at least one innocent among them and America couldn't stay away from something like this, though she knew it would do no good and only tear her apart.

Of course, he had told her that, begged her with tears and trembling lips to not come. But she couldn't leave him alone to be hanged with the people who murdered the man who could have saved him.

A man with hair the color of the wheat fields he had spent so much time in caught her staring. His sad blue eyes bore into her terrified ones. He was going to be hanged for something he didn't do, and it was she who was near to having a breakdown.

America's son was to be hanged with the conspirators of President Lincoln's assassination.

He had no part in the assassination. Murdering the president was the worst thing he could have done, he didn't do it! John Wilkes Booth was a Southerner, but that did not mean that the South agreed with the cursed man!

The South, formerly known as the Confederacy, stared at his mother, the North, in that loving, melancholy way he had assumed so often lately and so easily. He offered a weak, sloppy smile. She stared, transfixed and horrified, as cloth was put over his head, and the noose was tied around the neck of her only son.

_They_ had said it was necessary. With the boy who had formerly been the Confederacy still alive, more assassinations would be attempted. He was a threat, they insisted. America was furious that she could pardon criminals with presidential authorization, and yet not be able to save her own son.

He said something to the guard behind him, who nodded. The South still possessed that kind of composure and aura that made most citizens want to respect him. It was present even now. While the onlookers stared at the conspirators with mostly contempt, they instinctively furrowed their eyebrows in confusion when their gazes reached South, as if he was out of place standing on the gallows. Even though they didn't know who he was, even the common man and soldier knew that this boy shouldn't be executed.

America began to shake uncontrollably. Her throat closed, and the ability to breathe was forgotten. She watched helplessly as her son took a deep breath – a small detail that she was somehow able to notice through blurry vision – and jumped.

Years later, when attempting to remember the moment, she would be unable to recollect what the other eight did. All she saw in her mind's eye was her innocent child literally plunging to his death, smiling at her in a tender and reassuring way despite the fact that at the time he'd had his head covered.

Nor would America ever be able to remember how she let out a mix of strangled gasp and cry that would be her last sound for many months. Some soldiers rushed to assist her when her legs gave way, and her consciousness fled in search of peace. She woke in her own home some time later, a concerned Englishman sitting by her bedside, but wouldn't be able to remember that either.

All she could see was her last and only child, a mix of bittersweet regret and overwhelming love present on his features, and the last words he ever said, told to her by the guard who'd stood behind him, singing in her ears.

"Tell her that I love her, even through war and death."


End file.
